


the silver moon and the evening tide

by louciferish



Category: The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: Boosh Reunion Fic, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Past Sadness, modern era Noelian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27803887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish
Summary: Noel creeps around the house, tentative, for the same reason Julian is wearing a jacket indoors and has his hands shoved in the pockets. It’s always like this with them, after a break. The shyness is familiar in its own way.
Relationships: Julian Barratt/Noel Fielding
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	the silver moon and the evening tide

**Author's Note:**

> Since both the guys have claimed they want to write more Boosh in the past month. I still think they're liars who will break my heart if I let them, but I couldn't resist picturing what that might look like in the year 2021.
> 
> Please note that while it's not explicitly mentioned in the text here, I work under the assumption that any and all hypothetical activities in this story take place with full knowledge and consent of everyone's long-term partners. :) We ain't about cheating or disrespecting ladies.

“Thanks for getting me out of the house,” is the first thing Noel says when he sidles through the front door. It’s spring, which in London means rain again, and he shuffles his pointy-toed boots against the mat for twice as long as he needs to before glancing up, looking at Julian through his fringe like he’s a shy schoolboy popping by his crush’s house for a study session. “You know how it is, babies. They’re genius sometimes, but...”

“Yeah.” Neither of them needs Noel to finish that particular sentence. Julian remembers all too well the chaos of small children, complicated for him at the time by the very same man standing in his front room now. 

At home, the chaos of babies crying out for attention. Outside that, the chaos of his stumbling, oft-drunk partner, also crying out for attention. It’s too far in the past for him to spark resentment now, but he still prods at the lingering sore spot in his heart, trying to make it hurt again.

Noel slips out of his boots and ventures further into Julian’s house like a wild thing, looking every which way and watching each step, flighty. It’s like bringing home a shelter cat and letting it loose in the living room, though Noel’s been by several times over the years. He’d been to the housewarming, for fuck’s sake, but Julian recognizes the movements anyway. Noel creeps around the house, tentative, for the same reason Julian is wearing a jacket indoors and has his hands shoved in the pockets. It’s always like this with them, after a break. The shyness is familiar in its own way.

Julian settles in on the sofa, trying to force himself to unspool, and traces Noel’s steps as he continues to wander. After a few minutes of silence, his head jerks back. He looks like he’s just remembered Julian is in the room, and he’s not breaking into the house in the night, shuffling through his things and smelling his pants. Ducking his head to hide that smile, Julian looks pointedly at the rest of the sofa, and Noel flutters over and settles on the other end, sock feet on the cushions, perched on the back and pressed to the wall.

This is an experiment, all of it, and Julian’s pulse is rabbiting at the mere idea of having Noel in the room. They haven’t written together properly in years, haven’t even attempted it, and everything is overlaid with alternating coats of excitement and fear. The universe splits at their feet. In one direction, they slip back into working together like zipping up a favorite coat on the first cold day after a long summer. In the other, they fall spectacularly apart. There’s no way to know which it will be until they take the plunge.

“Think I’ll make some tea,” Julian says, getting up just as Noel has settled down. He’s procrastinating now, and they both know it. “Want one?”

“Cheers.” 

It’s an excuse to move around, put distance between them again, but the movement does help soothe Julian’s nerves a little. Kettle. Cups. Milk. He doesn’t need to ask how Noel takes it. He also doesn’t need to let his subconscious make that joke about how Noel _takes it_. From the living room, he hears a soft _whump_ as Noel drops from the back of the couch onto the seat, almost like a real adult.

The thing is, he wears adulthood well, and it’s not the first time Julian has had the chance to notice that, but it’s the first time they’ve been _alone_ for him to notice that. Noel’s never been the sort to sit still and pay attention for long, but time, parenthood, and sobriety have worn away the sharp, frantic edges of his energy and left behind a kind gentleness that reminds Julian of the early days -- the _very_ early days, when it was just the two of them, shitty flats, pot noodle, and big ideas. 

Julian likes it, this new steadiness in Noel. He can’t resist looking, glancing back over his shoulder at he putters about the kitchen and admiring these little details anew -- the tilt of Noel’s chin, the soft lustre of his hair, the way his oversized jumper slides downward on one shoulder. Julian traces the curve of that exposed clavicle with his eyes, and when he looks up from all that unselfconscious, pale skin, Noel is staring back, the slightest smirk lifting his lips on one side. 

A high-pitched shriek from the kettle demands Julian’s attention, and he lets the eye contact break, turns his back and forces himself not to look again as he fixes their cups. When he returns to the living room, Noel has his knees tucked under his chin, staring across the room at a piece of art on the wall.

“Who’s that one by?” Noel asks, innocent as anything, when Julian sets the cup on the table beside him.

Julian doesn’t need to look to know which one Noel’s noticed. “Not sure,” he lies. “Might have come with the house.” It’s not the only one of Noel’s pieces he owns, merely the only one in the living room. Upstairs, in his study, there’s a smaller one -- paper and marker, not paint and canvas, faded from years of sunlight and smudging fingers -- but that one’s always been for his eyes only.

He sets his own tea on the table, sucks in a quiet breath, and steps past the other end of the sofa to take the seat beside Noel. It’s like watching butter melt on a stove. Noel leans into him even before Julian stretches his arm up, curves it around Noel’s shoulders to cup his bicep and tug him closer. 

They’ve both changed, broadened, softened, but this feels much the same. Noel still fits against him perfectly, as if, once molded to each other, they never forgot that shape. 

“Thought we were writing,” Noel mumbles through a cheeky grin. “We doing this again instead?”

And here Julian can say Yes or Both or make some kind of little jab about the two things going together, being too tied up in knots to take apart without cutting it all to bits, but really there’s only one right answer. “If you’d like, then you might persuade me,” he says, and the new lines around Noel’s eyes soften along with his smile.

“Yeah.” It’s a quiet word, but it burns like citrus on Julian’s lips.

It’s a struggle not to laugh when Noel clambers into his lap, straddling his thighs with one hand on the back of Julian’s neck and the other crammed up the front of his shirt like they’re sealed into some tiny dressing room and frantic, expecting a curtain call any minute. Julian grips Noel’s hair with both hands -- always his first choice, his first instinct -- as they kiss. Shy as they are with speaking again, there’s no hesitance here. Their bodies know each other, provided they can get their brains to shut off.

When one of Julian’s hands drifts from Noel’s hair down to the dip in his back, Noel’s hips slide forward eagerly on a moan that becomes a yelp. Wincing, he falls back, and it’s only Julian’s grip on his waist that keeps him from tumbling onto the table and upsetting the tea.

“Christy, I’m getting too old to be riding you about like a Shetland pony.” Noel is laughing quietly, but he’s also digging thumbs into his inner thighs. “A minute straddling your legs, and I’ll be limping for a week. We may as well forget the writing and just bum for hours if I’m going to be prancing around like a wounded deer anyway.”

“If you’re too old, then I’m crumbling,” Julian complains, but he’s more than happy to use a hold on Noel’s hips to help him stand up. Noel’s frown gathers between his eyebrows as he rubs his thighs again, which means it’s not entirely for show, and Julian feels a twinge of guilt at that.

“You’ll have to help me up the stairs.”

“It wasn’t my idea for you to climb me like a tree.” Julian has to pause, then, as Noel’s remark sinks in fully. “Oh, going upstairs now, are we?”

“Unless you were really stuck on the idea of snogging on the sofa all afternoon like a couple teenagers.” Whatever shows on Julian’s face at that, it turns Noel’s grin wicked, and he steps closer until they’re pressed flush, long fingers plucking at the collar of Julian’s shirt. “Tell you what, Ju. We can stick with that plan some other night.”

Julian swallows around the lump in his throat and doesn’t examine the cause of it -- that image, the promise of _some other night_ , or simply Noel’s quiet, affectionate, _Ju_. “Right. Upstairs.” 

There’s a wild hare kicking in Julian’s chest that wants him to stoop, sweep Noel up into his arms, and carry him up bridal style like Heathcliff and Cathy, but it will be much harder to recover if he breaks his back trying to lift Noel. Instead, he holds out his arm like a gentleman and lets Noel drape himself into it.

The climb up the stairs is strange and familiar all at once, like everything else today, and there’s a rhythm tapping against Julian’s ribs as they sway together. He hums snatches of it to himself, and Noel harmonizes. 

Later, they will finally get hands on some paper and write -- Julian wearing his shirt and pants, and Noel wrapped in a paisley bedsheet like he’s the Roman god of wild schemes -- and that won’t be the same as before either, but that’s fine. Because if there’s one thing Julian has learned these past few years, it’s that you can never recapture the same moment you had in the past. Even the old things grow and change, and you have to make them new again if you want to keep them. 

When the evening light turns the sky outside pink and gold, Noel and Julian lie in the rumpled guest bed, bodies pressed together from shoulder to hip. Julian reads back part of the new script, and Noel can’t give his next line, too consumed by giggles. He muffles them in Julian’s shoulder, and Julian presses his nose into Noel’s hair, and he feels the tiniest, glowing flutter of something new sprouting.


End file.
